Speaking of God

With your indulgence, I’m going to rant for a little bit.

Before I do, however, we need to have a short chat about the differences between translation, transliteration, and inter-linguistic borrowing. Translation is a way of explaining an idea expressed in a word or words of one language with a word or words of another language, transliteration is the expression of a word written in one alphabet as it would sound when written with a different alphabet, and inter-linguistic borrowing is taking the word or words for a foreign or new idea from the language in which it or they were created and using them (transliterated, if necessary) in the context of a different language. I tell you this because my tirade intends to cross several languages and at times to harangue particularly on the evils of transliteration. Unfortunately, however, not all of my audience is as multi-alphabetical as I am, and for their benefit, I will occasionally be forced to do that which I am about to condemn, and so I want to make it very clear from the beginning that this is done strictly for the ease of you, the reader. That being said let us now establish a few necessary conventions. All translations will be done with quotations (though not all quotations will indicate translations – use your common sense), and all transliterations will be done in brackets, and they will have none of the other protocols of the English language, such as capitalization. The transliterated alphabet will be one of my own creation and constructed in such a way as I feel will be the most beneficial to normal people who speak English and don’t care about the International Phonetic Alphabet.

Let us continue.

Islamic theology tells us that there are 99 names for God – though I’ve been told there may be more (99 being particularly pleasing from an aesthetic point of view) – but, for the moment, I’m only concerned with one: God. In Arabic, this would be written as الله [allah]. It is the combination of two “words” (one is really more of a prefix): ال [al], the definite article (“the”), and الاه [illeh], meaning “deity.”

Islam was established largely as a reaction against the polytheistic religion of the Arabs, particularly as practiced in Mecca, and thus “the deity” is as much a word as it is a declaration of monotheistic belief. This is because the Arabic alphabet (unlike that of the Romans) has no rules for capitalization. In English, we can identify a proper noun by its beginning with a capital letter. Take, for example, the city of New York. We know it’s a unique entity by virtue of its capitalization. If we wrote “new york,” we’d be left wondering (a) why is has no article (whether it’s a new one or the new one) and (b) what the hell a york even is. There are times when we use the articles and capital letters, which have their own rules. How about the Hanging Gardens of Babylon? Obviously, this is a very special place, thus necessitating the capital letters, but we still need our definite article because we don’t want to be confused with other gardens, particularly other hanging gardens located elsewhere or other non-hanging gardens found in Babylon.

Arabic speakers don’t have the same luxury. Instead, through a combined use of their definite article and contextual clues, they’ll know if they’re talking about the city of New York, or the most recent of yorks to enter the discussion. And now that we have a clear understanding of what’s going on with the word الله, we can move on to the much more important matter at hand: there is no word “Allah.”

I appreciate that this might be a little confusing of an assertion, so I’ll break it down. This: الله is a word; this: “Allah” is not. Why? The first is probably the most important – certainly the most frequently used – word in the Arabic language. The reason the second is not a word is because this would be an English (or other Roman alphabet-using language) word, and those languages already have a word for this. In English, that word is “God.”

But what does “God” mean? It’s a question for the ages, and I will answer it right now. “God,” by virtue of its being capitalized, is a proper noun, and – more importantly – because it is not preceded by an article, is therefore representative of a singular entity. We could talk about “a god” (such as: “in summer I resemble a bronzed god”), or “the God” (such as: “Ra is the Sun God of Egyptian mythology). The indefinite article (“a”) requires that the following word begin with a lower-cased letter, whereas the “g” of “the Sun God” is capitalized because there is only one Ra, but he resides amongst a company of deities. But we’re talking about “God” in its unarticled form, which must necessarily mean the chief deity of a monotheistic religion.

Which religion? Technically speaking, an adherent of any monotheistic religion, whether it be Christianity, Judaism, Islam, the Church of the Fonz, or any of a host of other real and imaginary religions should – when speaking English – use the word “God” to label his or her Supreme Being, unless, of course, they feel that such has a more feminine character, in which case they should use “Goddess.” Fortunately, however, languages are organic inventions rather than discoveries, and thus we can determine the meaning of “God” by noting that the development of the English language has been closely linked with the development of the Christian religion. Therefore, “God” should be understood as “the deity of the Abrahamic monotheistic religion.”

We make a point of saying “Abrahamic” because, despite English’s close historical ties with Christianity (or, perhaps I should say the close historical relationship between Christianity and the people who have spoken and developed the English language), we acknowledge that there are other faiths that claim the same origins. Judaism is an excellent example. We can see that “God” as a word (being an English word) was created to meet the needs of Christians in expressing the Over-Being of their religion, but as Christianity descends from the faith of the Jews (according to Christian dogma), the word has come to identify the Creator of the Universe as identified by Abraham, the wellspring from which proceed both these religions.

Which brings us back to the problem of “Allah.” We’ve already given it the translation of “the deity,” but as “the deity” could suggest many possible meanings, a more functional translation would be “the single omnipotent deity that created and controls the universe.” Islam is, after all, a monotheistic religion. Most people take الله, transliterate it as [allah], and then install it in the English language through inter-linguistic borrowing as “Allah,” but that’s the problem because it doesn’t only mean “the Supreme Being of monotheistic religion.” Arabic is just as linked to the culture of its speakers as English is, and thus their deity concept is linked to the major religion of the Arabs: Islam. Islam is a monotheistic religion, and, according to its doctrine, began when Abraham was instructed to proclaim his faith in one true god. Therefore, when an Arabic-speaking Muslim says the word “الله,” what he means is “the deity of the Abrahamic monotheistic religion,” and, as we’ve seen, English already has a word for this: “God.”

I hope you’ve enjoyed this lively little journey through academic linguistics as much as I have, because now we need to get serious. I would like to propose that saying “Allah” in the context of English is not only linguistically incorrect, it is a socially-condoned hate crime.

Here’s the thing: why should you use one word as opposed to another? Sometimes, this would be to avoid repetition in a piece of writing. We all know how boring it is when people write boring writing. Other times, it’s because we need to illustrate a difference. Even such words as “huge” and “gargantuan,” though they’re grouped as synonyms, aren’t quite the same. That’s often because of either differences in how frequently we use a word, or because we associate one or another with a certain idea or event. So which is it? Well, as for lexicological variation, that’s pretty much already taken care of. We have “God,” “the Almighty,” “the Creator,” “Lord,” “the Eternal,” and a host of other superlatives for labeling the Supreme Being. Conveniently, so too does Arabic. These are the 99 other names. And, anyway, we tend to restrict our use of thesauri to common words. Names and other proper nouns don’t get changed quite as much.

The majority of people would probably say that “Allah” is an English word as a result of inter-linguistic borrowing. Now, inter-linguistic borrowing is a wonderful thing, particularly as it allows us to simplify our expression of what would otherwise be very complicated ideas. No one wants to say “traditional Moroccan earthenware cooking pots” when they have the option of using “tagines,” or “various assortments of raw fish and rice dishes native to Japanese cuisine” when they could simply say “sushi.” But inter-linguistic borrowing doesn’t work when the language already has the ability to express that idea. We can’t take “fromage” from the French because we already have “cheese,” and we can’t transliterate and incorporate من [man] from Farsi because we already say “I.”

Let’s belabor the point with another example. One of the great benefits of being an American is our close proximity to Mexico, and, by extension, burritos. “Burrito” is an English word as a result of inter-linguistic borrowing. Why? Well, what is a burrito? It’s a delicious center of meats, vegetables, sauces, or whatever else you might desire enveloped within a bread product that not only contains everything else, but also facilitates the burrito’s being eaten with the hands. English has a word that generally encompasses the same idea: a “sandwich.” Is a burrito a sandwich? I don’t think so, and I don’t think you think so, either. If they were the same, then, of course, we wouldn’t bother with “burrito” (never mind how much fun it is to roll your Rs), but they aren’t, and so, as with “huge” and “gargantuan,” we kindly thanked our Mexican friends and snatched their word.

On the other hand, “bandera” is not an English word. Why not? We have flags. We have flags for our countries, states, businesses, sports teams, holidays, and just about everything else. Well, that’s the problem. We already have them. To say “bandera” would imply a minimum of some difference – some slightly new construction that isn’t quite captured by “flag” – but there just isn’t any. The same applies to “Allah” and “God.” If they have the exact same meaning, then we can’t use different words, but we do anyway. Why? This is an age of great closeness between peoples who in the past had little interaction between each other, and, now that globalization has thrust us upon each other, we see great differences between ourselves and these “new” societies. The practice of Islam is quite different from the Judeo-Christianity that our culture is familiar with, therefore we naturally assume that the Islamic God concept is equally different. To say “Allah” is to say “the god of the Muslims” or “their god, not ours.” Despite the fact that when Muslims pray they do in fact invoke a name that is phonetically completely unlike that of either Christians or Jews, to say that they worship a separate deity is simply incorrect. The problem with difference, is that it makes us treat each other differently, and it’s only when we see one another as similar that we put down the shields of fear and dislike. “Allah” encourages division and separateness between peoples who should – now more than ever – be doing everything they can to highlight their commonalities, and there is none more important than a shared belief in the same supreme power.

And that’s the offense, so now we must ask ourselves, who are the offenders? As alluded to, there are a great many closed-minded fools making a mess of our world, but, perhaps even more tragically, there are far too many well-intentioned people essentially doing the same thing.

Let’s start to correct this evil with a grossly over-simplified example. First, allow me to prove that “God” is not, in fact, the universal name of God. We need only look just south of the Rio Grande (or, in many cases, north of it), to hear the pious invoking the benediction of “Dios.” Is this some new religion, coincidentally practiced only in places that speak Spanish? Is it a breakaway sect in Spain that, due to its Castilian lisp, demands that they direct their praise towards “Dioth?” What of the French and their insistence on worshipping Dieu? Have they not received the Word? Granted, you might be a particularly bigoted Protestant, so let’s take a quick look at some of the predominately Protestant societies. When the Germans and Danes go to church, they pray to Gott or Gud (respectively). They’re probably just pronouncing it wrong.

Obviously, no. Nor is this the case on the Islamic side. A faithful Persian will speak of خدا ([khoda]), just as an Arab would of الله. Which begs an even more important question: what of the Arab Christians? Just as we’d expect to hear “Dios” at the local church’s services en Español, it’s only natural to assume that the 40% of Lebanon’s population who ascribe to Christianity (and the majority of the Lebanese Diaspora) would also use their native language in their own services. “الله اكبر” ([allahu akbar]; “God is the greatest”). Not even the thumpingest denizen of the Bible Belt could argue the point on dogmatic grounds.

So why do we so frequently insist on shifting languages when we talk of different religions? And who are “we,” anyway? Well, my first culprits are my fellow Peace Corps volunteers. It’s most likely a product of how we use God so much more when we’re speaking Darija than we ever dreamed of in the course of our English-speaking lives, but that’s no excuse for breeding ignorance. “Everything is fine with me today, الحمد الله” [alhamdullah] (“thank God”); “Please help me, الله يرحم الوليدين” [allah i-erhem l-wellideen] (“God bless your parents”); “I’ll see you in class tomorrow, ان شاء الله” [inshallah] (“God willing”). We invoke God on an almost constant basis, and, since our English is no longer free from the clutches of Moroccan Arabic, this continues in our discussions with each other. Now, let’s not think that I’ve got anything against inter-linguistic borrowing. The God concept coming from the highly fatalistic Arab/Islamic society, doesn’t have the same connotations as the Western/Christian perception of a relatively laissez-faire monotheism (ie. God set the world turning and then sat back to enjoy the show), and so when we say “God willing,” it’s likely to imply “I hope the preceding occurs, though it will likely require an act of divine intervention.” “ان شاء الله,” by contrast, suggests that all events occur as written by God, therefore whether I see you tomorrow or not is a decision made by far higher powers than my own. Depending on the implication I want to give, I can say either “God willing” or “ان شاء الله.” “الله willing” and “God ان شاء,” however, are unacceptable translations. When you borrow inter-linguistically, you borrow the whole phrase.

It’s not just Peace Corps volunteers, however, nor is it only Americans or Christians who are to blame. Sami Yusuf, “Islam’s biggest rock star” according to Time, is another. In his mega-hit “Hasbi Rabbi” Sami travels around the world to profess his faith and highlight the peacefulness of Islam. He hits Britain, Turkey, India, and Egypt in his four verses, each of which is sung in the local language. Thus the song begins in English, and his first words are:

O Allah the Almighty
Protect me and guide me
To your love and mercy
Ya Allah don't deprive me
From beholding your beauty
O my Lord accept this plea

He gets his translating right at the end, and in the fourth line he switches languages for a quick shot of Arabic (“ya” is the Arabic expression for “I’m talking to you” or “O”), but that doesn’t really matter as he starts it off wrong right from the start (and proceeds to make the same mistake again throughout the rest of the song). Of course, Sami’s intention is to express the profundity of his faith, and his music and lifework is an example for all of the harmony possible between members of different religions, but he nonetheless encourages the perpetuation of division between the faiths. He, like Peace Corps volunteers, should know better.

Which is ultimately the crux of the matter. It's not just an issue of being politically correct; it's a question of being correct or incorrect. It's a matter of choosing our words in a way that encourages understanding, in a way that declares to the world in a unified voice that Christians, Jews, and Muslims have a shared heritage - whether they like it or not. I'm not here to question the existence of God or the relative merits of different religions. Those are questions for better or worse (respectively) minds than my own. I'm simply here to say that we need to stop telling our Spanish friends to "vaya con God," to stop yelling "Dieu im Himmel" when something startles us in Berlin, and to help our Persian friends when they tell us "خدا be with you" when they say goodbye. "خدا حافظ" [khoda hafez] is the appropriate expression.

It’s time to learn how to speak your language, people.